


Hotline Miami X Overwatch: Madness

by CrazyM, Tigole Bitties (CrazyM)



Category: Hotline Miami (Video Games), Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Flashbacks, Flashbacks and present, Gabriel Reyes as Beard, Gen, Insanity, Its hotline miami what do you expect, Memory Loss, Mindfuck, Soldier 76 as Jacket, Soldier 76 is psychopathic and a lot other dangerous things, Unreliable Narrator, disjointed narration arc, extreme violence, its all confusing, many people die, mindless violence, story between swiss base explosion and soldier 76 story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-19 10:25:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17599532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrazyM/pseuds/CrazyM, https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrazyM/pseuds/Tigole%20Bitties
Summary: What does one do when they fall in love with their own insanity?





	1. The Metro

**Author's Note:**

> A pet project, only because I love these two games so much.
> 
> Gayness? IDK. read on to find out!
> 
> I just wrote this to get it out of my mind.

Everything hurts.

He remembers nothing.

Even the picture in his reversible jacket means nothing. The other side of the reversible jacket, the one he had become so comfortable in. The side he remembers, the side he can identify with. The other side was just a blur, a collection of disjointed memories, trains of thought.

He thought he had left that life alone.

But here, after this explosion, when all his skull has is ringing, he feels like he will turn over to the darkness once again. The warm embrace of blood, adrenaline and spilled innards.

"You are not a very nice person, are you?" The voice asks, and its from the little girl he just saved. Its not her voice, or even her question. He knows it, but he stills feels compelled to answer, because now he can.

"Not anymore."

*

He pushes the door, the room is dark, save for three lights. There are three entities sitting under each of them. He stopped bothering to pay attention to what was real and what wasn't a very long time ago.

It kept him more sane that way.

He doesn't remember when he was born, or what his father was supposed to look like, or what his mother's laugh sounded like. If he ever had a job, a wife, kids or siblings. There was darkness, and then suddenly, he existed.

"And who do we have here?" The entity on the right speaks. It looked like a form of a woman, but the head of a horse. Graceful, watching. Friendly to his presence. Green.

He doesn't answer, because he doesn't know.

"Oh, you don't know who you are?" She asks. He stays silent. "Maybe we should leave it that way?"

"But I know you." The entity on the center speaks. He has the head of a rooster. He looks at him with no emotion. Like he was here to just oversee things. Yellow. Business as usual. "Look at my face. We have met before...haven't we?"

He still doesn't have an answer.

"I don't know you!" The entity on the left speaks. He has the mask of an owl. He didn't want him here. Red. "Why are you here? You're no guest of mine!" 

There is a silence. He contemplates the questions, like they are supposed to be from a part of a life he never lived. Its like he's answering for someone else's crimes, being called as a witness to justify for someone else's actions, and these three entities were the judges.

"Do you really want me to reveal who you are?" The mare speaks again. "Knowing oneself means acknowledging one's actions. As of lately you have done some terrible things..."

"You don't remember me? I'll give you a clue..." The rooster speaks again. "Does April the 3rd mean anything to you? I believe that was the day of our first encounter. You look like you might be remembering something."

Everything dissolves into the darkness. The pain in his skull returns.

*

_April 3, 2069._

He exists again. Out of the darkness. Out of oblivion. He realizes he is standing. His feet are bare. He has his Jacket on. The same letterman jacket he had on everytime he existed, the same place, the same time, the same bare feet. He takes a moment to verify his existence.

There is the red parquet, the tattered old green carpet. The kitchen is empty as usual. He looks at his face. Blank. Scarred. He doesn't know what caused them. He doesn't know why.

There it is again. That feeling. Creeping up his legs. Swallowing him whole. The fear of the unknown. Fear of himself. He doesn't know what he is, or who he is. It creeps up his neck, and he has to hold onto his head to stop the static.

But then, the moment he thinks he will lose the fight, the silence is ripped apart by the scream of a telephone going off in the distance. Beep.

Everything is calm now.

He goes to the phone and picks it up.

"You have one message."

He presses the right button

"This is 'Tim' from the bakery. The cookies you ordered should be delivered by now. A list of ingredients is included. Make sure you read them carefully!"

The message ends. He puts the phone down. And then goes to the door to the house.

Is this his house? Is this even a house? He discards every thought. Outside is a package waiting for him. He opens it. and there is a letter, with a rooster mask.

_The target is a briefcase._

_Discretion is of essence._

_Leave target at point F-32, inside the dumpster._

_Failure is not an option._

_We will be watching you._

He goes down the stairs, and gets into the car. Its an old model. It hovers. It works beautifully, but its old. Is it his? He doesn't know. All he knows is it will get him there.

He doesn't even need to remember the way. He is there in the next instant. He looks at the rooster mask and slips it on. 

Something changes. Not immediate. Not obvious. Like the sudden obfuscation of his disintegrating identity had suddenly made him invincible and his body had realized it, but not his mind.

He kicks the door down and catches something on the other side. There is the clang of metal. The thud of someone falling. He locates the fallen individual. He doesn't feel like leaving them alone, or saying sorry.

He just grabs the head, and slams it into the floor. There is a crack.

He slams again. There is a deeper, more sickening crack.

Then again. The cranium splits. The blood splatters, and the brain meets the floor. 

He feels nothing. Just an urge to find the next target. He finds one in the washroom, minding their own business. He wastes no time to kick them into the cubicle. The individual scrabbles to their feet, clothes drenched in urine and water. He kicks again, grabs the head, and drives it through the ceramic. There is another crash, and then there is the tinkle of falling bits and pieces, mixed with the dribble of running water. He gets out of the washroom, hungry for more. He takes the stairs, ignoring the long platform hosting trains, currently empty.

And as he rounds up the corner, he comes face to face with the next man. His sudden appearance, coupled with the mask, confuses the white-suited man enough for them to hesitate for a split second. He just closes the distance with his fist and the man crumbles to the floor, recovering from the punch, back against the wall, legs at right angles. He lifts his leg and drives it into the head once again, and the skull gives in, unable to resist and unprepared for such a force. The corpse slides down the tiled wall, leaving a trail of blood in its wake. 

He rounds the corner again and there is another with a knife. This one swings. It misses the jacket. He follows with a punch. Another one comes in with a lead pipe. He punches him into the wall as well. He picks up the pipe while the two downed faceless people tried to recover. He loves its weight, the way it feels in his hands. He wants to try it. Desperately.

He swings it at the one nearest to him. With all his 200 pound might. The head makes contact and it shatters like eggs. He loves it.

The other one tries to scramble to their feet, but the slippery tiled floor is their enemy. He mounts the remaining individual and holds the pipe high above his head. He brings it down like an axe chopping wood. The lead pipe rises and descends again, and again until the rooster mask is staring down an unrecognizable mass of blood and tissue.

He holds onto the bloodied pipe and makes his way down the hall, turning to open the door. Two more people come running to him, pipes of their own. He swings his own lead pipe in a clean sideways arc, killing both of them. Then there is one last person, different from the others, clutching a long briefcase. He drops this person too, taking the decently heavy case. There is a rumble. A train has approached downstairs.

He descends the stairs and then spots the newest entrants. They had black suits, instead of white. And they seemed more active. One made its way to him, his hand holding a baseball bat. He swings the case and the attacker sprawls. He mounts again and lets the case descend. The added weight makes the job so much easier. The other one runs to him. He swings the case upward, and catches the new entrant on the chin. He hears a snap, and the lifeless form of the attacker falls on the floor.

Silence descends. He takes the case into the car, and leaves immediately.

He arrives at the next destination, just like the first. The alley is empty. He just walks to the bin and dumps it there.

"Who is it? I can hear you! I know you're there!" An angry voice screams on the other side of the alley. He walks to the other side and there is the bum, snot on his beard, yellow teeth, holding the bat wrong. He kicks him into the floor, splitting his head open with his own bat. And then he removes the mask, looking at the bloodied rubber, and the man below him, reduced to rotting flesh. He breathes until his breathing is the only audible thing, ringing through his skull. The adrenaline is gone, so is the rush. And then he looks at the jacket, sleeves still clean. He reverses it, so that the 'B' letterman jacket turns into a red white and blue one with the numbers '76' on its back.

He vomits, and then gets into the car.

*

He knows this grocery store, but not why.

He also knows the keeper to this store. He walks to the counter first. There he is. Scruffy black beard, attractive smile. Pretty nice fingers too.

 _"Hi there, man! Haven't seen you around. Thought something might have happened to you. You seemed really down after he died. Don't remember seeing you after that... Maybe we should talk about something else... So, out for a midnight snack, huh? Oh, don't worry about it. It's on the house... Good to see you! Have a nice night!"_ The storekeeper says, and for some reason, his voice is disjointed, more pleasant, like a dream. The keeper's finger's find his, waiting on the wood surface, like a more formal version of a hug, and he looks down on it, unable to comprehend what that is supposed to mean, but loving the gesture anyways. This was the one constant he could count on.

He waits for another moment, then leaves, grabbing the six-pack of beer on his way out, enters the car, and then carelessly forgets to exist.


	2. No talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 is here, and the action follows the way I played the level, the quickest way.

_April 8, 2069_

He exists again.

His feet are intact.

He smells like vomit.

He looks around. There is a TV pointing to the bed now. There is an ancient gaming console that was used recently.

Did he use it? Who used it? Is there someone else who lives here too?

The smell is getting to him. He remembers the house has a tub. It is full of water.

When did that happen?

It doesn't matter. He cleans himself up. There are scars all over his body. Some look pretty fresh.

When did he get these?

Before he can think anymore, the jacket is back on. His hair is short. Painfully short, like someone had taken liberties with the electric razor, leaving behind a blonde fuzz. He unzips the jacket to look at himself in the mirror, but all he can see is skin that is as unknown to him as anyone else. When the jacket comes back on, he feels better in its embrace. This thing, this two-sided garment was more known to him than the skin underneath it. He had spent time with it, killing people he didn't know, yet it felt good.

The scream of the phone jerks him out of his reverie once again.

Beep.

_You have one message._

He presses the button again.

_"Hello, it's 'Linda'... I need a babysitter right away. Got a few kids that need to be disciplined here. I'm at East 7th Street. Make sure you have a long talk with them, I really need someone to get through to these rascals. And like last time... please be discrete!"_

Like last time.

Has he been there before?

The shoes are on, and the pink fliers about peace are forgotten, so are the rejected bottles of beer outside by the door.

*

He stops the vehicle and it hovers, gurgling like a large animal. He opens the glove box, and two more masks fall off.

There was one rooster, one owl and one tiger.

he remembers both the rooster and the owl, and both of them felt like they were watching him. He puts on the tiger mask.

The embrace of rubber is warm. Its like slipping on his own skin this time.

His hands itch. He wants no weapons. He wants blood, spilled by his own hands. His fists are bandaged completely.

He ignores them and charges in. He looks around, but there is no one here. Just a hallway with no windows or doors, and a left turn at the end of it.

It was almost like the people knew his rage needed to be saved. He charges to the end of the hallway, hanging a left and ascending the stairs.

And when he arrives on the next floor, he can sense them. He can sense flowing blood, beating hearts and breathing lungs. He goes in through the door. As soon as he turns left, he comes face to face with another white-dressed goon. The goon's biggest mistake was the split second of hesitation, but before he could raise the lead pipe, the fist had met his face, exploding into his skull, driving the bones of the nose deep into the brain, killing him before he hit the floor. This room had a large table and chairs. Was this the dining room?

Was this their house, or were they like him too? 

He looks at the pipe, but his hands have no interest in pursuing that avenue. There is a door. He senses another presence on his left, where there is another door. There are also noises of a TV. He rushes in from the left, but doesn't stop to look around. He had too much momentum. The door right in front opens and he explodes into the bedroom, his fist crushing into a skull, another white suited goon, cracking the wall with the force. The goon slides downwards, having no face. Just eyes wide open.

He turns around, and exits through the open door, and then he notices the goon with the gun running to him, but before the barrel can face the tiger mask, the fist has reached the head, like a sledgehammer to a pumpkin, obliterating him. The gun drops harmlessly. He remembers the ransacked trio of beds, almost like this was a happy home somewhere in the past. Papa Bear, Mama Bear, Little Bear. He ignores the TV. All he sees is static anyway. Static in his own TV. Static in his own mind.

But this, right here, is mind blowing clarity. Serene, like water.

He takes the door he had ignored earlier. There were two goons. One died when the door crashed into his body, and the other when the fist did. They both had guns, but it is almost laughable to think that those things were any use. There is another door. The cabinet with a showpiece looked like remnants of another happy memory. There is another door at the end of the room. He enters, and then red hot pellets graze the air beside him, as he enters the L-shaped room. There is another explosion of shotgun shells, but it goes where he isn't anymore. The fist is there again, the bandage softening the blow just right. He feels the nose give once again, and then as soon as this last goon crashes onto the sofa uselessly, everything goes silent once more.

No heartbeats. Just the deafening static once more, and the sound of his own breathing.

He runs to his car.

*

He knows this pizza place too. 

This keeper has the same face as well, almost like anything that has a face has his face, almost like his version of the universe didn't bother with the details. Scruffy beard, same hands.

 _"Hi there, welcome! Oh, you don't need to order, your pizza's already done. Had a feelin you were on your way here, heh... Well, let's just leave it at that for now, shall we? Don't worry about paying, it's on the house!"_ His voice is so deep. So soothing. So dreamlike. Like drugs, or a healthy dose of marijuana. The static eases away. He breathes like everyone else does. He wants the keeper's hands, and finds them waiting. He threads his own fingers through the keeper's, like he was about to get answers from the skin.

He doesn't. Neither did he get answers from the place he had neutralized, _like last time._

He looks up at the counter, and there is a pizza box there. His jacket is gone. Its just a shirt. But here, in front of this keeper, those hands, he feels better without his second skin. He feels better naked.

He takes the box of pizza, gets into the car.

The darkness takes him as his own once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turns out, you can end this level even faster with the Tony mask, if you rush everyone like this. But you will have to use the lead pipe on the last guy or you ded.
> 
> I wasted a big part of an hour experimenting if this was possible, but not so in my conditioning of reflexes.
> 
> Do tell me how the chapter was!

**Author's Note:**

> There is more coming. Did you like it?
> 
> Where is the R76? You just saw it happen, didn't you?
> 
> Make sure to tell me HTF this was


End file.
